PS 1266 
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Copy 1 




THE GARY HOMESTEAD 



Where Alice and Phoebe Gary hved and worked for nearly 
twenty years. 



The 

GARY SISTERS 



JENNIE M. DAY 

TOLEDO PUBLIC SCHOOLS 




CHICAGO 
A. FLANAGAN COMPANY 






LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 

JAN 21 1904 

Y_Xopyright Entry , 
CLASS C> XXc. No. 



COPY B 



COPYRIGHT, 1903 
BY A. FLANAGAN COMPANY 



The sketch contained in t-he following pages is 
founded on "A Memorial of Alice and Phoebe Gary," 
by Mary Clemmer Ames, and on a visit to Clover- 
nook, which included an interview with Mr. and Mrs. 
Warren S. Gary. Mr. Gary is the only living mem- 
ber of the immediate family of which Alice and 
Phoebe Gary formed a part. 



, :^t,««»!«««'«wf*"«''?t**«''H^^j,A^ 



/ 




ALICE GARY 




PHCEBE GARY 



The Gary Sisters 



CHAPTER I 

April 26, i8j2 

FOR days April had been living up to her 
reputation. The little brown house and 
all that surrounded it — the sweetbrier clinging 
to Its walls, the apple and cherry trees, the rose 
bushes, the grass plot In front and the fields 
beyond — were thoroughly drenched. 

Even Robert Gary seemed to be affected by 
the general despondency of the outside world, as 
he stood at the window and with an apparent 
effort at resignation repeated in a low tone: 

" 'The Lord shall open unto thee his good 
treasure, the heaven to give the rain unto the 
land in his season, and to bless all the work of 
thine hand.' 'He sendeth rain on the just and 
on the unjust.' " 

Then his voice suddenly changed and the ring 
of rejoicing was unmistakable, as the sun burst 
from behind a cloud and flooded the room with 
its yellow light: 

" 'Truly the light is sweet, and a pleasant 
thing It Is for the eyes to behold the sun.' " 



8 THE GARY SISTERS 

The radiance from without was reflected in 
the faces of those within as they gathered 
around the breakfast table: five handsome 
brown-eyed girls, two boys with eyes which were 
mates to their sisters', and one tiny golden- 
haired miss who shared with her mother the 
distinction of possessing the only blue eyes in 
the family. 

Rowena, Susan, Rhoda, Alice, Asa, Phoebe, 
Warren and Lucy were the names of the children 
in this happy circle. They waited at the table 
for the mother, who was hushing a baby's 
cries in an adjoining chamber. When she 
returned, her bright face added another gleam 
of sunshine to the already brilliant room, and a 
general air of contentment pervaded the group. 

"Well, Alice," said the grave father, turning 
to the daughter who most resembled him, "we 
are doubly glad for the sunshine, since it comes 
in time to help us celebrate the day you first 
appeared among us." Then turning to his wife, 
"Have you thought, Elizabeth, that today is 
the twenty-sixth of April?" 

Had she thought? O man of excellent traits, 
where are your eyes? Do you not see the little 
bouquet of wild violets at Alice's place? And 
what is this she finds as she lifts her plate? — a 
new linen handkerchief hemmed with such 
neatness that only mother's fingers could have 



THE GARY SISTERS 9 

done it. The mystery remains unexplained how, 
with the manifold cares of a household of eleven, 
Mrs. Cary could yet find time to do the things 
that absolute necessity did not require. 

When breakfast was over the children went to 
the windows and looked out on the water-soaked 
world. Swallows flitting around the eaves and 
bluebirds balancing themselves on the branches 
of trees exchanged the season's greetings. 
From the tips of the leaves hung tiny globes of 
rainbow tints that tumbled off into space and 
were instantly succeeded by their counterparts, 
keeping up a gay chase which caused Alice to 
exclaim: "April is smiling through her tears!" 
Then, leaning out of the window and taking in 
the sky country with her open-eyed, earnest 
gaze, she cried: "Oh, look, everybody, and see 
the rosy cloud hedges between us and heaven!" 

Soon a little group started down the road with 
dinner baskets and books — Rhoda and Alice 
arm in arm, Warren and Phoebe close behind, 
and Asa following quietly in the rear, looking 
lovingly back at little Lucy, who stood in the 
doorway watching with wistful eyes until the 
last sign of her playmates disappeared. 

In the ditches beside the road ran muddy 
rivers which splashed and rippled and tried to 
reach over their borders "with dimpled hands," 
as Alice said. 



lO THE GARY SISTERS 

When, late that afternoon, the door of the Httle 
brick schoolhouse swung open and the children 
bounded forth, there were at least five young 
hearts beating high with joy and pride; for had 
not Rhoda been commended for her reading, 
Alice for her studiousness, Asa for his skill in 
figures, Phoebe for her neat copybook, and 
Warren for the way in which he had repeated 
his letters, even "skipping around"? 

It was Asa and Warren and Phoebe who led 
the way this time. Asa felt that in spite of the 
praise of his teacher his happiness would not be 
complete until he had heard his mother's "Well 
done, my son," and Phoebe and Warren were 
eager for a romp with wee Lucy, who always 
welcomed them so joyously. 

The two older sisters lingered behind, while 
Alice said coaxingly: "Now, Rhoda, tell me 
about the prince. You said they put him in 
that dreadful dungeon. Oh, surely they let him 
out!" 

"Don't ask me to end my story before I have 
well begun," laughed Rhoda. "Just wait until 
we get to the big oak, where we can have a dry 
log to sit on, and I will try to call up the story 
fairies." Then she stopped, and looked admir- 
ingly at her younger sister. "And you are 
twelve years old today, Alice! Soon you will be 
weaving stories of your own." 



THE GARY SISTERS II 

Alice walked on with the dignity she felt 
becoming in one of her years, but haughtiness 
came near meeting its proverbial fate, for she 
stumbled and would have fallen but for Rhoda's 
rescuing arm. Stopping to see what it was she 
had tripped on, she picked up a freshly cut 
switch. 

"Look, Rhoda," she cried, "why shouldn't this 
make a tree? The earth is still damp. Let us 
stick it in the ground and see if it will grow," 
and, suiting the action to the word, she quickly 
dug a small hole and firmly planted the branch. 

"Now we must watch it and see that it is not 
disturbed," she said.* 

This little incident helped to shorten the dis- 
tance to the old oak under the friendly branches 
of which so many happy hours were spent. 
Here Rhoda related thrilling tales in so realistic 
a manner that Alice was held spellbound and 
often moved to tears. To her Rhoda was more 
wonderful than the genii in the "Arabian 
Nights," for at her bidding did not the most 
interesting people spring into life and experience 
marvelous adventures? 

On this afternoon they sat long, Rhoda look- 
ing off into space, where she seemed to see and 
hear the people of her creation and forget even 
Alice, who watched her with dilated eyes and 

* The tree, a stately sycamore, is still standing. 



12 THE GARY SISTERS 

bated breath, as motionless as a statue, appar- 
ently afraid that a movement might break the 
charm and bring to despair the brave lords and 
ladies whose fate was hanging in the balance. 

The climax had just been reached, Rhoda had 
stopped speaking and Alice was drawing a deep 
breath of satisfaction, when the}^ were brought 
back to real life by the voices of the younger 
children calling them to supper. So the land of 
fancy was regretfully left behind; but they knew 
the way back, and many and frequent were the 
visits they made to this enchanted region. 

After the frugal meal Rhoda and Alice took 
their accustomed places at the dishpan and 
swiftly brought order out of chaos, changing 
soiled dishes into bright, shining ones. 

Then came the quiet hour before going to rest. 
The little circle, bound together with bands of 
affection and interest, sat in the gathering dusk 
and early candlelight and talked over the events 
of the day. Each one, except Baby Elmina, 
shared in the duties and responsibilities of the 
household, even to three-year-old Lucy, who 
threw corn to the hungry chickens, amused the 
baby for hours at a time, and often acted as 
messenger between father in the field and 
mother in the house. 

Alice sat at the window, between the sisters 
who were the favorites of her childhood. Lucy 



THE GARY SISTERS I 3 

was at her feet, the golden head lying in her 
lap, while Rhoda's hand rested caressingly on 
lier shoulder. 

"Where do the shadows come from?" she 
mused. "Do they rise or fall? They go up- 
ward and light the candles of the skies, and yet 
they gather thicker and thicker on the bosom 
of the earth." 

She looked out at the long, straight rows of 
currant bushes, alternating with spaces where 
early vegetables had been sown,- in the near-by 
garden, stretching away into the gathering dark- 
ness. She thought of the long years before her, 
reaching on and on into the mysterious future. 
What did they hold for her? How far could 
she control her destiny? 

"I will learn a lesson from the person who 
planted the potatoes and the beans," she said, 
almost aloud. "When I am old enough to be 
sure of myself, I will try to plan my life like 
those straight rows. The stones and sticks and 
weeds I will carry away; they shall not harm 
my garden nor make my row crooked. And if 
storms come and the whole world is dark, I will 
remember how, this morning, when we thought 
the sun had quite forsaken us, he came from 
his hiding-place and shone again so warmly 
and steadily that we almost forgot he had ever 
left us." 



14 THE GARY SISTERS 

Before she closed her eyes that night she sent 
up a little prayer that the lessons of this day 
might never grow dim in her memory. 

Below is one of Alice Gary's descriptions of 
her home and mother: 

AN ORDER FOR A PICTURED 

O, good painter, tell me true, 

Has your hand the cunning to draw- 
Shapes of things that you never saw? 

Ay? Well, here is an order for you. 

Woods and cornfields a little brown, — 
The picture must not be over-bright, — 
Yet all in the golden and gracious light 

Of a cloud, when the summer sun is down. 
Alway and alway, night and morn. 
Woods upon woods, with fields of corn 
Lying between them, not quite sere. 

And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom. 

When the wind can hardly find breathing-room 
Under their tassels ;— cattle near, 

Biting shorter the short green grass ; 

And a hedge of sumach and sassafras, 

With bluebirds twittering all around, — 

(Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound!) — 
These, and the house where I w^as born, 

Low and little, and black and old, 

With children, many as it can hold, 

All at the wnndows, open wnde, — 

Heads and shoulders clear outside. 

And fair young faces all ablush: 

Perhaps you may have seen, some day, 
Roses crowding the selfsame way, 

Out of a wilding, wayside bush. 



THE GARY SISTERS 

Listen closer. When you have done 
With woods and cornfields and grazing herds, 

A lady, the loveliest ever the sun 

Looked down upon, you must paint for me; 

Oh, if I only could make you see 
The clear blue eyes, the tender smile, 

The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace. 

The woman's soul, and the angel's face, 
That are beaming on me all the while, 
I need not speak these foolish words: 
Yet one word tells you all I would say, — 

She is my mother : you will agree 
That all the rest may be thrown away. 



CHAPTER II 

September 4, i8j2 

SUMMER was smilingly putting on her neck- 
lace of carnelians and rubies and gold, not 
knowing that it would turn to rusty iron and 
tighten until her breath was gone and she was 
only a thing of the past. The apple orchard 
at Clovernook Farm was generous in its con- 
tribution to the rich autumn coloring. The 
trees were laden with fruit in all stages of 
maturity, the early harvest trees glorying over 
their neighbors, and blushing w^ith pride as 
they displayed the completion of their summer's 
work. 

A small boy was stealing along among the 
trees, his eyes shining with excitement, and an 
expectant smile on his lips. Presently, glancing 
upward, he discovered the object of his search, 
looking like a personified red astrakhan among 
her mates. 

"Wait, Phcebe," called Warren, as the bright- 
eyed little maid jumped from the lowest branch 
of the apple tree, her apron filled with the 
rosy fruit. 

"Well?" said Phcebe, pausing and turning her 

head slightly. 

16 



THE GARY SISTERS 17 

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, 
and one to grow on!" cried Warren, accompany- 
ing each count with a blow which brought the 
color to her cheeks and left her nearly breathless. 

"Oh, you rogue!" laughed Phcebe, picking up 
the scattered fruit and shaking back her dis- 
ordered hair, as Warren sought safety in flight 
after triumphantly reaching the end in spite of 
her struggles and cries. "The wicked flee when 
no man pursueth," she panted, beginning to hurl 
the contents of her apron after him, checking 
his retreat and finally bringing him low. 

W^ashington was not more generous to Corn- 
wallis than was this victor to her fallen foe, as 
she helped him up, and, still choking with 
laughter, made sure that he was not hurt. He, 
in his turn, helped to gather again the somewhat 
bruised apples, and gallantly carried one corner 
of the apron basket. 

They found themselves in as queer a pro- 
cession as- ever started out on parade. Asa 
displayed the banners in the form of a mopstick 
on one shoulder and a broom on the other. 
Lucy came next, under either arm a struggling 
kitten that furnished music for the occasion; 
then Rhoda and Alice with a small stand on 
which lay the seven books composing the family 
library, and last the nearly grown sisters, each 
with a kitchen chair. 



1 8 THE GARY SISTERS 

It was a merry party, for today marked an era 
in their lives. They were moving from the old 
house to the new — the long expected, planned 
for and worked for event. Deep in the hearts 
of some of them there was a reluctance to leave 
the small weatherstained dwelling which was the 
only home they had ever known, but each 
guarded his secret carefully, and so no shadow 
fell on the little company. 

Before the day was over the last article had 
found its place in the new house, and a tired but 
cheerful group gathered about the supper table. 

"I think you will long remember your eighth 
birthday, Phoebe," said Mrs. Gary, looking 
across the table "at the little girl, who returned 
her affectionate glance with a loving smile. 

"Mother," she said slowly, "I am glad and 
proud to live in this house. I don't want to go 
back to the other, but," with a little quaver in 
her voice, "I love the old house and I wish I 
could feel quite sure that it isn't lonesome for 
us tonight. It looks so. empty and sad, and 
seems to be saying, 'Come back, come back, 
come back!' " 

No one laughed at Phoebe's fancy, and even 
mischievous Warren's eyes grew big and solemn 
as he looked at his sister in silence. 

"I love the old home better than I ever shall 
any other," said Alice, almost passionatelv- "I 



THE GARY SISTERS I9 

love every shingle in the old roof, the patter of 
the rain close over our heads, the smell of the 
sweetbrier under the window, and the lullaby of 
the branches when the wind blows." 

"It is quite right, my children," said Mr. Cary, 
nodding his head approvingly, ''when we are 
forming new friends, to remember services rend- 
ered us by old ones, and I am sure none of us can 
ever forget how faithfully and well the old house 
has sheltered us all these years. But I am just 
as sure, if it could think and speak as we do, it 
would be saying tonight: *Good-by, my chil- 
dren; God bless you in the new home. I shall 
miss you, but I shall be glad to rest, for I am 
tired.' " 

Mrs. Cary gave her husband a grateful glance. 
The momentary sadness was dispelled, and the 
hungry group applied themselves to the whole- 
some fare before them. 

"Don't get lost in this great mansion," called 
Rhoda, as the younger children started for bed 
that night. 

"No, we won't," retorted Phoebe, "unless you 
want to show your skill in finding us." 

Asa, who was becoming very gallant, opened 
the door, for his sisters to pass through, and 
stood silently in the shadow, tall and erect. 

"What is that in the dark corner," said Alice, 
"a person or a post?" 



20 THE GARY SISTERS 

"There," cried Phoebe, "she called you a post! 
Why don't you rail at her?" 

So the busy day, filled to overflowing with so 
great a variety of emotions, ended with laughter 
— that health-bringing, care-dispelling, excellent 
gift to man. 

Below is Phcebe Gary's description of the old 
home. 

OUR HOMESTEAD 

Our old brown homestead reared its walls 

From the wayside dust aloof, 
Where the apple-boughs could almost cast 

Their fruit upon its roof ; . 
And the cherry-tree so near it grew 

That when awake I've lain 
In the lonesome nights, I've heard the limbs 

As they creaked against the pane ; 
And those orchard trees, oh, those orchard trees ! 

I've seen my little brothers rocked 
In their tops by the summer breeze. 

The sweetbrier, under the window-sill, 

Which the early birds made glad, 
And the damask rose, by the garden fence. 

Were all the flowers we had. 
I've looked at many a flower since then, 

Exotics rich and rare. 
That to other eyes were lovelier 

But not to me so fair ; 
For those roses bright, oh, those roses bright! 

I have twined them in my sister's locks. 
That are hid in the dust from sight. 

We had a well, a deep old well. 
Where the spring was never dry. 



THE GARY SISTERS 21 

And the cool drops down from the mossy stones 

Were falhng constantly, 
And there never was water half so sweet 

As the draught which filled my cup, 
Drawn up to the curb by the rude old sweep 

That my father's hand set up. 
And that deep old well, oh, that deep old well ! 

I remember now the plashing sound 
Of the bucket as it fell. 

Our homestead had an ample hearth, 

Where at night w^e loved to meet ; 
There my mother's voice was always kind, 

And her smile was always sweet; 
And there I've sat on my father's knee, 

And watched his thoughtful brow, 
With my childish hand in his raven hair,— 

That hair is silver now ! 
But that broad hearth's light, oh, that broad hearth's light ! 

And my father's look, and my mother's smile, 
They are in my heart tonight ! 



CHAPTER III 

1833-1833 

THERE passed away a little more than a 
year of work and play, laughter and tears, 
sunshine and shadow, with the work, laughter 
and sunshine enveloping their mates so com- 
pletely that they nearly absorbed them, and 
then the Gary family were plunged into deep 
sorrow. Rhoda, who was perhaps the most 
gifted one of the family, was taken away, and 
only one short month later little Lucy, the house- 
hold pet, followed her. 

Alice and Phoebe, of whom we know most, 
never recovered from the blow. The loss of 
these sisters was one of the deepest shadows 
they carried with them all through their earnest, 
useful lives. For a few months longer they 
were encouraged and helped by the wise counsel 
and tender affection of the mother who was the 
wonder of their childhood. They were con- 
vinced that in all the world there was not to be 
found a woman so beautiful, so wise and so pure; 
nor could they imagine any other person 
accomplishing so much. To grow up to be like 
mother — this was their earliest ambition, their 
most passionate desire. 

22 




SYCAMORE TREE PLANTED BY ALICE GARY 



24 THE GARY SISTERS 

In the summer of 1835, after less than three 
years' enjoyment of the new home which had 
cost such privation and labor, Mrs. Gary folded 
her weary hands and closed her. eyes for her 
last sleep, leaving a circle of which she had been 
the center and inspiration. Can we wonder 
that the old question — asked when the world 
was young and still unanswered — should have 
troubled those bereaved young people? Why? 

But there was no time for idle repining. A 
blessing came to them in the necessity for active 
employment. Hearts may ache and the world 
seem very dark, but the world's work must go 
on, and it is the world's workers who know best 
how to bear their sorrows. The machinery of 
the household moved on much as it had when 
the circle was complete, and smiles were not 
lacking, even though at first they were forced 
into existence. 

This pushing aside of one's pain that the 
sufferings of others may be more easily borne 
is the dear price which people of character pay 
for the growth of the qualities which we so much 
admire. There is a high purpose in the hard 
things of life, and it is for us to decide whether 
or not this purpose shall be accomplished in us. 
It was accomplished in the members of the Gary 
family; of this we have abundant proof. 

One day's routine followed another in quick 



THE GARY SISTERS 2$ 

succession ; days passed into weeks and weeks into 
months, until two whole years had elapsed since 
the bitter parting from wife and mother. The 
two older daughters were married; Warren and 
Elmina were living in Cincinnati with Rowena, 
and there were left in" the old home with Mr. 
Gary only Alice, Asa and Phoebe. 

It had been a busy day. Asa had been hard 
at work on the farm. Phcebe, with a book in 
one hand and a churn-dasher in the other, had 
been urging the latter up and down with an 
irregularity for which the absorbing interest of 
the book was responsible. The fact that the 
bringing of the butter was perhaps needlessly 
delayed did not prevent the double worker from 
becoming weary; nor did it lessen the feeling of 
satisfaction with which she viewed the result of 
her labors. Alice had been plying broom and 
dustpan with great vigor, while the maid in the 
kitchen had been making good things soon to 
be enjoyed to the utmost. 

Mr. Gary, who usually led in the activities of 
the household, was absent today. He had left 
home early in the morning, and Alice's heart 
had been full of foreboding during the day, for 
she remembered the somewhat confused manner 
in which he had stated his business, and had a 
haunting feeling that something had been 
withheld. When h>e drove up at dusk he found 



26 THE GARY SISTERS 

a tired group awaiting him on the pleasant 
south veranda. 

"Here you all are," he said, in his affectionate 
manner; but Alice was sure she detected an 
undercurrent of excitement in his voice. He 
threw himself ^into the easy chair which seemed 
to be inviting him, and after looking around at 
the silent group he went on in a low tone: "I 
have something of importance to say to you. 
Will you hear it tonight, or are you too tired to 
listen?" 

All eyes were turned to him inquiringly. 
Alice seated herself at his side and took his 
hand lovingly between hers. 

"Let us know now, father," she whispered. 
"I cannot wait." 

In the short silence which followed she 
promised herself that no matter what her father 
might have to say it should not be made harder 
for him through any act of hers. Presently Mr. 
Gary spoke again. His voice was grave and 
earnest. 

"I hope that the change I am about to make 
in our family will be agreeable to my children. 
I loved your mother truly and faithfully; I still 
love her. Nevertheless, a new interest has come 
into my life. I feel, too, that my children 
should no longer be deprived of the guidance 
and help which only a mother can give. In a 



THE GARY SISTERS 27 

very short time I shall have a new wife and you 

a new mother. Can you promise me you will 

make her welcome?" 

Just a minute in which to still her heart throbs, 

and then Alice rose, kissed him, and said m a 

voice which was not quite steady: 
"You may depend upon me, father." 
Asa shook his parent's hand and walked 

away in silence; but Phoebe had disappeared. 



CHAPTER IV 

1835-1837 

THE announcement which Robert Gary made 
to his children that night was perhaps 
the greatest shock to Phcebe. A young girl of 
thirteen could scarcely be expected easily to 
resign herself to the thought that another — a 
stranger — was to take her mother's place and 
expect from her the affection of a daughter. 
She kept to her room for a day, refusing to see 
or speak with anyone, but when she appeared the 
following morning there was a new look in her 
face : the battle with self had been fought and won. 

Most loyally did Alice, Asa and Phoebe Gary 
prepare for the reception of their new mother. 
The house was made as attractive as possible 
to receive her. Mr. Gary had bought a new 
covered buggy, and behind the horses which 
Asa had curried and brushed until they shone, 
the new miistress of Glovernook Farm was driven 
to the door. She greeted the waiting young 
people pleasantly, kissed them lightly on their 
foreheads, then, turning to Alice, said inquir- 
ingly: '*My room?" and was accordingly shown 
into what had been their mother's apartment. 

Let us pass quickly over the first few months 
of this new life. The second Mrs. Gary was as 

28 



THE GARY SISTERS 29 

unlike the first in most respects as could be 
imagined. She was frugal and industrious, 
keeping up the ceaseless battle against dirt for 
which her ancestors, the Hollanders, have 
always been noted, but in this respect only was 
there an exaggerated resemblance to the first 
wife. She could not appreciate the finer natures 
of her stepchildren, and was so absorbed in 
looking after household affairs, seeing that the 
brass candlesticks and andirons were sufficiently 
bright, and that not a speck of dust remained on 
an article of furniture, that she had no time or 
inclination to give to the lonely girls the sympathy 
and affection which they so much needed. 
When this became apparent to them they gave 
up trying to win her love, but continued to do 
cheerfully all she required of them. 

Their visits to the three graves which seemed 
to hold so large a share of their life's treasures 
became more frequent. When their daily tasks 
were completed their feet often turned toward 
the spot which seemed to bring them nearest to 
the absent ones. Here they confided to one 
another their troubles, and here, too, confessed 
their hunger for knowledge, and their craving to 
be and do something in the world. 

Alice's budding literary aspirations had shown 
themselves in a very natural and childlike man- 
ner. Her first efforts were spent in attempts to 



30 THE GARY SISTERS 

improve the poetry of her school reader and in oc- 
casionally covering a page of her copy-book with 
original verses. She now began to write snatches 
of the melodies which were singing in her heart. 

When Phcebe was fourteen she one day 
asked permission to go for a walk. She assumed 
a very unconscious air as she sauntered along, 
until at a safe distance from the house. Then 
she sat down on a log and drew from her pocket 
an envelope which she handled almost caress- 
ingly, looking at it this way and that, her color 
coming and going as she did so. This little 
scene was enacted again and again before the 
post-office was reached, and when at last the 
time came to part with the precious document 
she gave a little gasp that caused a man stand- 
ing near to step forward and ask: "Is anything 
wrong, miss?" 

Then came days and days of waiting, which 
finally lengthened into weeks, while Phoebe kept 
her secret to herself and tried not to feel disap- 
pointed. 

One Saturday night it seemed particularly 
hard. Her brother had been to Mount Pleasant 
and returned with no mail for her. She had 
not asked, because there was no apparent reason 
for her doing so, but she had watched with keen 
eyes, and there was nothing— nothing for her. 

She was sitting dejectedly before the fire when 



THE GARY SISTERS 3 1 

her father looked up from the paper he was 
reading and said in a voice which showed some 
emotion: "Phoebe, come here." 

She rose slowly and moved somewhat hesi- 
tatingly toward him. 

''There is something in the paper I want you 
to see," continued he. 

She reached his side and looked where he 
pointed. It was a poem— the lines were familiar 
— what! Her poem with her name printed in 
The Cincinnati Enqiti7'er? How strange it 
looked — "Phcebe Gary"! 

The room seemed to swim around for a 
moment, and then, throwing herself into her 
father's arms, she burst into tears. A little 
later she was laughing, and then, exercising all 
her self-control, she sat quietly while the paper 
was handed from one to another, her shining 
eyes and a new poise of the head alone betoken- 
ing her triumph. What did it matter that she 
must wear plain clothes and do disagreeable 
tasks? She had written a poem that was printed 
in a newspaper, and she no longer cared about 
the petty trials of everyday life. Moreover, 
there were years ahead in which to write and 
publish, and the future looked brighter than it 
had since the dear sisters and mother went 
away. So it was in earnest endeavor that she 
found her greatest comfort and inspiration. . 



CHAPTER V 

i8jS 

FOR a few weeks past Alice had taken a great 
interest in going after the mail, sometimes 
making use of the horses; more often going on 
foot. She said that she liked the exercise, and 
that the change of scene rested her. So it was 
no surprise to any member of the family to see 
her start off on this particular autumn day, 
although her household duties had been heavy; 
nor did her brisk return cause any remark. 
With the quick intuition of intimacy, however, 
Phcebe noticed her heightened color, and felt 
that some revelation was coming, but the same 
intuition kept her silent until Alice should be 
ready to speak. 

After the mail had been delivered, read and 
commented upon, Mr. Gary looked over the 
reading matter on the table searchingly, sa3ang 
as he did so: 

"I have not seen T/ie Sentinel. Did you bring 
it, Alice?" 

"Yes, I did," she answered with glowing 
cheeks, "but I believe I took it upstairs with my 
hat. I will bring it down." 

As she reentered the room she remarked: 

32 



THE GARY SISTERS 33 

**By the way, father, I sat down on a log to 
read some parts of the paper and noticed some 
lines in 'The Poet's Corner which I wish to read 
to you. I am curious to know what you will 
think of them. May I read them aloud, and 
will everybody listen?" 

This was an unusual request, and commanded 
immediate attention. Phoebe and Asa looked 
up from their checker-board and leaned back in 
their chairs. Mr. Gary crossed his legs and 
took off his spectacles. Mrs. Gary made no 
sign, except that her knitting needles clicked a 
little faster and seemed to engross her mind 
more than ever. 

There was a slight tremor in Alice's voice, but 
she read the verses through with a feeling and 
expression which confirmed Phoebe's suspicions, 
and might have awakened similar ones in other 
minds. She kept her eyes on the paper after 
she had stopped reading, waited a moment, and 
then, looking up with an apparent effort, said: 

"Well, father?" 

"Oh, you want my opinion, do you?" he asked 
slowly. "Are you sure it is worth while?" 

Then, seeing the tears trembling on Alice's 
eyelashes, he picked up the paper and silently 
read the poem again. 

"There is some literary merit in it," he said 
finally, "but it is undoubtedly the work of a 



34 THE GARY SISTERS 

young and inexperienced writer. 'The Child of 
Sorrow' — the author has suffered, but she has 
much to learn. The earnestness of the underly- 
ing thought is its only real virtue. Is that what 
you wanted me- to say?" he asked, looking up 
innocently. 

Phcebe's face was crimson. She could no 
longer keep silent, and flew across the floor, 
threw her arms around her sister's neck and 
kissed her, whispering: "Don't mind, Alice, it 
is fine; and I am so glad they printed it." 

**Eh? What is this?" said Mr. Gary, looking 
over the top of his paper. "What does this 
mean, Phoebe?" 

"It means," was the answer,' "that Alice wrote 
that poem. Look in 'The Poet's Corner' and 
see if her name is not there." 

"Well, well!" were the words which accom- 
panied his look of amazement, upon finding that 
what Phoebe had said was true. Then he rose, 
and, patting Alice gently on the shoulder, said: 
"Well done. If my criticism was not high praise, 
it was at least honestly made, and that is what 
you wanted. This is good. You will do better 
next time." 

Asa's pride in his sister was apparent in his 
quiet gaze, but Mrs. Cary sat silent, and Alice 
saw disapproval in the firmly compressed lips. 
Is it strange that the forlornness she had felt 



THE GARY SISTERS 35 

when she first knew of this addition to their 
family again took possession of her? How 
different it would have been had her mother 
lived! How she yearned for the sympathy and 
counsel of that dear mother! 

But her father approved, and she would go on, 
and, as he said, do better. This was the greatest 
pleasure life afforded, and it could not be wrong. 
She would not shirk the household tasks; she 
would be obedient and respectful, but her idle 
moments were her own to do with as she chose, 
and her earnest choice— nay, her passion— was 
for literature. So the resolve was made, and it 
was none the less determined because it was 
silent. 



CHAPTER VI 

i8jg-i8jo 

IT was Saturday afternoon. The last touch 
had been given to the furniture, everything 
was in perfect order, and shining from recent 
brisk polishing. Mrs. Gary herself could think 
of nothing further to be done. Alice and 
Phcebe found their way to a clump of trees 
which hid them from the house and from the 
view of passers-by. With a sigh of satisfaction 
Phcebe threw herself on the ground. 

"Oh, this is sweet," she cried. "A whole after- 
noon by ourselves!" and she stretched herself at 
full length on the grass, looking up at the 
friendly birds In the boughs above her, and at 
the patches of sky which could be seen through 
the fluttering leaves. 

Alice's only reply was a quiet smile, as she 
drew out her pencil and paper and began to 
wTite. 

"What, at it already?" said Phoebe. 

"Yes," answered Alice. "These are some 
verses which came to me this morning while I 
was paring apples." 

The younger sister said no more, but went off 

in a day dream, coming back to a realizing sense 

36 



THE GARY SISTERS 



37 



of her surroundings as Alice dropped her pencil 
and held up the written sheets. 

"Let me hear it," said Phoebe, and Alice 
complied, reading with great earnestness and 
expression, as was her wont. 

"Send it to The Star',' said the admiring 
auditor. "That is the very best you have done. 
I think they ought to pay you for it." 

"Patience," answered the older sister. "The 
first thing for us to do is to make our work 
worth while — to think of the people who need 
help, who may be helped by the right word. 
When the money comes, let it be unexpected." 

"That is all very well, and I agree with you," 
answered Phcebe, "but just imagine having 
money of our own! The curtain rises— enter 
candles for night work and exit in confusion the 
saucer of lard with the rag wick; and possibly — 
who knows? — exit also the disapproval of the 
cruel stepmother! She would not object to 
candles, surely, if we bought them with the 
money we had earned." 

"Hush," said Alice, shaking her finger disap- 
provingly. Occasions were rare when either of 
the motherless girls acknowledged in words the 
shadow which was daily cast on their lives. 

But time was too precious to be spent in con- 
versation, and scarcely a word further was 
exchanged during the afternoon. When the 



38 THE GARY SISTERS 

time came for returning to the house, Phoebe 
took charge of the manuscripts, feeling intui- 
tively that it would be best to keep them out of 
danger. Mrs. Gary was at the door as they 
approached and greeted them with a frigid 
silence for which there was only one inter- 
pretation. 

There came a day when the silent friction 
between stepmother and daughters reached an 
issue. She regarded all time spent in study and 
writing as worse than wasted, for if they rested 
after the work was done could they not begin 
the next morning with greater vigor? So when 
Phoebe was discovered under the cherry tree 
jotting down lines of poetry, while her half-filled 
pail dangled from one of the branches, she was 
peremptorily ordered to put the paper in the 
stove and then return to her work. 

With burning cheeks, the young girl entered 
the house, but instead of doing as she had been 
bidden, she crept into the hall and secreted the 
manuscript in a dark corner of the closet under 
the stairway, where there were others to keep it 
company. She came back and, without saying 
a word, finished picking the cherries. 

Mr. Gary would never have known of this 
incident from his daughters, but he chanced to 
be within hearing when it occurred, and for the 
first time realized that the relations of his 



^t.-^^^ 

m^?' 



^fw^, 



'^^■'•.. 



HHHUiillMf 



P'iVmtjIJpillflpipilllM.lllf 




THE BIG OAK TREE 

In the shade of which the Gary children spent many happy 
hours, and where Rhoda told her stories. 



40 THE GARY SISTERS 

household were somewhat strained. A man of 
gentle nature who has lived in peace for half a 
century is not likely to be the first to discover 
discordant elements in his home circle, but the 
discovery once made, he is not slow to apply the 
remedy. So it was that Mr. Gary built a house 
for his wife on another part of the farm and left 
his children in possession of the homestead. 
The opportunities for carrying on their literary 
labors were thus multiplied tenfold, and our 
young songbirds were quick to take advantage 
of the situation. 

Gradually their names became familiar to the 
outside world and their list of publishers 
lengthened. The daily and weekly journals of 
Gincinnati, The Ladies Repository, and Graham s 
Magazine were among the first to recognize the 
merit of their work. Then their verses appeared 
in The National Era — published in Washington 
by Dr. Bailey — to which Alice became a regular 
contributor. 

Meanwhile, they were encouraged and 
strengthened by appreciative letters from many 
eminent people, among others the poet John G. 
Whittier. They learned that Edgar Allan Poe 
had pronounced Alice's "Pictures of Memory" 
one of the most musically perfect lyrics in the 
English language. Horace Greeley one day 
found his way to their door, and brought with 



THE GARY SISTERS 4I 

him SO vivid a description of New York life that 
it made a lasting impression upon them. 

There was great rejoicing when, in 1847, after 
nine years' continuous labor, the first money was 
received — ten dollars from Dr. Bailey of The 
Era. Surely, no such sum ever before looked 
so large after having been so richly earned. 

During the next three years regular contribu- 
tions were made to different periodicals, and 
money recognition became the rule rather than 
the exception. This enabled the sisters to add 
to their stock of books and magazines and so 
increase their knowledge and broaden their view. 

Among their most appreciative readers was 
Dr. Rufus W. Griswold, who, in 1850, gathered 
together the result of their twelve years of 
privation and labor, and found publishers who 
were willing to pay them one hundred dollars 
for the collection. 

Their reward had been well earned. We can- 
not begin to estimate the obstacles overcome, 
nor the patient, earnest effort of those twelve 
years. In the Gary sisters we have an example 
of persistence and industry which is indeed 
worthy of emulation. 



CHAPTER VII 

i8so-i8yi 

WHEN Alice Gary was thirty years old and 
Phoebe was twenty-six they left their 
little cottage on the farm and started for a visit 
in the East — the land of culture and refinement 
for which they had yearned so many years. 
They went to New York and Boston, where 
they saw for the first time many friends whose 
acquaintance they had made through cor- 
respondence. The words of praise and apprecia- 
tion of these admiring friends must have been 
very sweet to the two gifted women who had so 
long labored in poverty and loneliness. From 
Boston their hearts turned instinctively to 
Amesbury, where lived the poet Whittier, Mr. 
Whittier's poem ''The Singer" gives a loving 
description of this visit. 

About a year from the time of their eastern 
trip, Alice and Phoebe, accompanied by their 
youngest sister, Elmina, took final leave ol 
Clovernook — the farm cottage and familiar sur- 
roundings endeared to them by memory and 
long association, and made a home for them- 
selves in New York city. 

They lived at first in a few small rooms, but 

42 



THE GARY SISTERS 43 

later were able to buy and furnish a pretty little 
house in which they spent the remainder of 
their lives. 7'heir father made them long visits, 
and his gray hair and kind face were familiar in 
their home. 

On one evening of each week the doors were 
thrown open for all who cared to come, and 
their modest house became a center of culture 
and refinement. "Actors, artists, poets, clergy- 
men, titled people from abroad, women of 
fashion, women of letters, women of home, the 
known and the unknown," attractive and unat- 
tractive — all were welcome. Among the names 
of the most constant visitors were the familiar 
ones of Horace Greeley, Phineas T. Barnum, 
Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Anna Dickinson and 
Bayard Taylor. 

As the years went on, Alice and Phoebe 
became more and more to each other, and after 
Elmina's death these two v/ere inseparable. 
No offer of marriage would tempt either to 
leave the other; their sisterly devotion never 
faltered nor failed. 

One pleasant morning in the summer of 1869 
the tinkle of the breakfast bell brought together 
three interesting women, the Gary sisters and 
Mary Glemmer Ames, who was unconsciously 
gathering material for her memorial of these 
two dear friends. They made a pretty picture: 



44 THE GARY SISTERS 

Alice in her white gown and cap, brightened 
with pink ribbons; Phoebe in street dress, 
just from the market, bringing the freshness of 
the morning with her, and their visitor, in cool 
green, looking the embodiment of affectionate 
content. 

"What did you see this morning?" asked Alice 
of Phoebe, adjusting her handsome breakfast 
shawl. 

"I saw," answered Phoebe with assumed 
solemnity, "an illustration of the saying that 
opposites should wed. There was at the market 
a very large woman accompanied by a very 
slender man, who must have found her size and 
the length of his arms serious obstacles in the 
way of lovemaking after the approved fashion. 
Nevertheless, it was apparent from their affec- 
tionate manner of holding each other s hands 
that they had loved through thick and thin!" 

When the merriment subsided her friend 
remarked: "It may be a kind act on your part 
to mention these persons to Mr. Barnum the 
next time he calls." 

"I shall do him no such good turn," said 
Phoebe. "I have not forgotten the last time I 
visited the museum. Why, think of it! I asked 
to see the 'Infernal Regions,' and after investigat- 
ing and finding they were out of order, he said, 
in such a saucy way: They have vanished, but 



THE GARY SISTERS 45 

never mind, Phoebe, you'll see them in time.' 
*No, in eternity,' I answered, accepting the 
situation as gracefully as I could." 

"Phoebe and Mr. Barnum have much good- 
natured warfare, Mary," laughed Alice. "He 
appreciates her fun as thoroughly as anyone I 
know of. A short time since he told me about 
another visit at the museum. He said that he 
had preceded her and had passed down some 
steps. While intently watching a big anaconda 
in a cage at the top of the stairs, she walked off 
and fell. He caught her in his arms and saved 
her a severe bruising. 'I am more lucky than 
that first woman was who fell through the 
influence of the serpent,' she said as she 
recovered herself." 

"Very good," laughed Mary. "But I am 
astonished, Phoebe, to hear you could so easily 
be charmed by a serpent, when the more 
fascinating animal, man, has influenced you so 

little." 

"It is quite as well," flashed Phoebe. I have 
never been disappointed in my affections, while 
a great many of my married friends have." 

"Come, come," said Alice with mock serious- 
ness, "more attention to the matter in hand and 
less to levity. May I serve you with another 
cupof coffee, Mary?" 

A little later came the opening of the mail 



46 THE GARY SISTERS 

and. the tide of conversation ebbed and flowed 
with the emotions awakened by the morning's 
tidings. There were quick words of indignation 
at injustice and wrong, exclamations of joy at 
the triumph of right, and expressions of natural 
womanly interest in events affecting their friends. 

It was nearly two hours from the time they 
sat down at the table before this group of three 
separated for the day's work, Phoebe and Mary 
going directly to their rooms, and Alice stopping 
only long enough to give her orders for the day. 

They did not see one another until dinner 
time, as they had not chanced to meet at 
luncheon. The gayety of the morning had 
subsided, but the same cordial good will and 
common interest prevailed. 

After dinner they adjourned to Alice's room, 
each taking with her the product of the day's 
labor. Phoebe opened the door softly, carrying 
her neat manuscript. She sat down beside Alice, 
and shyly and modestly read the poem she had 
just completed. Her low, appealing tone made 
adverse criticism impossible, and the listeners 
wept with her over the sad story of "The Lamp 
on the Prairie." 

Then Alice went slowly to her desk, drew out 
some rumpled sheets, and sank back in her easy 
chair. In her sweet voice she read that wild, 
quaint ballad beginning 



THE GARY SISTERS 47 

In the stormy waters of Galloway 

My boat had been idle the livelong day, 

Tossing and tumbling to and fro, 

For the wind was high and the tide was low. 

After this, silence fell on the group — the 
silence of perfect freedom, which is the very 
essence of true friendship. They spoke at inter- 
vals in low tones, of the past, the departed ones, 
whose memory was always fresh in their minds, 
and of their youthful hopes, disappointments 
and successes. 

When Phoebe rose to leave the room she kissed 
her sister tenderly and repeated with deep feeling: 

"So let my past stand, just as it stands, 
And let me now, as I may, grow old ; 
I am what I am and my life for me 
Is the best — or it had not been, I hold." 

Alice died in February, 1871, and Phoebe the 
following July. So close were the ties that 
bound them, it seemed that the one who went 
first must draw the other to her. 

Alice Cary was a woman beloved by all who 
knew her. She was tall and graceful; her 
beautiful dark eyes with their expression of 
tenderness attracted at first glance, and the lines 
of strength and firmness about the mouth 
inspired respect. 

She loved children passionately, especially 
little girls, and often invited them to spend the 



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THE GARY SISTERS 



day with her. One little company of them she 
had always in her room, a row of Alice Carys — 
photographs of children who had been named 
for her, and in whom she took a motherly 
interest. Her poem "My Little One," shows 
how she always carried in her heart the memory 
of her blue-eyed sister Lucy. 

Phoebe also was very fond of children, but 
her favorites were boys. She made herself a 
child with them; they were her "jolly little 
comrades," her "dear little friends." 

She had a keen sense of humor, and her ability 
to portray to others the funny sights she had 
always the eyes to see made her a very enter- 
taining companion. She was called the wittiest 
woman in America, but wit is not of so tangible 
a nature that its fruits can be handed down to 
other generations. Phoebe Gary's wit flashed out 
and enlivened the people about her, but to us is 
left only the echo of the laughter she awakened. 

These two sweet singers, whose songs will 
never grow old, were women of exceptionally 
pure lives and noble character. No stories or 
poems of theirs were more musical than their 
harmonious lives; their hearts embraced the 
whole universe in loving tenderness. To be 
useful and helpful, to feel that the world was 
better for their having lived — this was the mov- 
ing power of their whole existence. 



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